The Tale Of The New Dildo, Crymaxing And LCD Soundsystem

Illustration by Mathiole.

It’s important to have alone time to engage in self-care practices. This is something the unit chair of my Honour’s course has stressed since day one. Apparently, conducting and reporting on a research project in nine months can get stressful. This is the advice that I’m bearing in mind when my housemate comes in to inform me that he’s going for a walk to the bakery down the road, and I request that he go to the one further away with the better croissants. The sound of the front door shutting is inextricably tied to the dropping of my black cotton Bonds hipsters and diving across my bed, legs akimbo.

I bought a new vibrator recently – it’s so damn effective that I can cum three or four times before an Interpol song is finished. But I have a thing about masturbating when my housemates are home – the thing being that I find it impossible to do. It’s not that I’m noisy. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. My orgasms come rolling in fairly silently when I’m alone, signalled only by the Grand Mal jerking of my legs and rolling of eyes upward. No, it’s my goddamn housemates that are noisy. You try jacking it when there are two dudes playing Wii Sports in the next room.

So I take as many of these opportunities as I can during the day, when one of the guys is at Uni and the other has gone out for food, or smokes, or drugs. Because when you sit in a computer chair for upwards of twelve hours, you may not notice on a conscious level, but your vagina gets restless. It picks apart choice words like “lesbian” and “horny” and fixates its arousal on them. Then it sends you a big, screaming “PAY ATTENTION TO ME” message.

Today was one of those fidgety genital days. So I went about my flailing business, and just as I had reached the cool-down period of this particular session, I heard it. A sad, warbling climax – and it wasn’t coming from me. As the post-orgasm fuzz began to ebb out, the song crossfaded in and I felt a familiar wave of emotion brewing in my chest, like a particularly potent tab of acid that comes whooshing in, impolitely. In my masturbatory haste, I had neglected to change the song to my current favourite (Drake), and I’d let Sound of Silver continue playing.

I had surfaced in the midst of the saddest build-up known to man, and the knowledge that I had just cum while listening to James Murphy’s heart bleed looms over me. Those pivotal bars of All My Friends fill the room and with it, the memories of all the people I had shared this song with, all of whom are now devastatingly irrelevant to me. The lyrics bring back sharp recollections of listening to the song through tiny phone speakers in the Queen Vic Market at 4am, on a much needed reprieve from the sweaty basement we crawled out of.

I barely heard the front door in the throes of my wailing – sobbing for friends lost, for the anxiety disorder that a thesis can wrench out of you, and also in guilt, for having indirectly objectified James Murphy and reduced my adoration of him to a few vaginal contractions. Maybe this is what happens when you don’t leave your room for upwards of fifty hours.

My housemate hears the emotional ruckus and enters without bothering to knock – because how was he to know that I would be crying in the foetal position with nothing but a t-shirt on, while an LCD Soundsystem record bore awkward witness to my breakdown? He obviously intended to ask what was wrong as he came in, but it manifested itself in ashocked yelp as he backed out of the room, but not before throwing the croissant on the bed in a sign of culinary solidarity. The attack dissipated as quickly as it came rushing on, and now that Us V Them was on, it all seemed kind of funny. I ate my croissant and imprisoned myself in my room for another day or two for damage control purposes.

And now when I hear All My Friends, I have another layer of conditioned, confused arousal to add to the emotional rollercoaster that is that song.

Words by Dolores Haze.

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